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Come, ye thankful people, come, raise the song of harvest home;All is safely gathered in, ere the winter storms begin.God our Maker doth provide for our wants to be supplied;Come to God’s own temple, come, raise the song of harvest home.

All the world is God’s own field, fruit unto His praise to yield;Wheat and tares together sown unto joy or sorrow grown.First the blade and then the ear, then the full corn shall appear;Lord of harvest, grant that we wholesome grain and pure may be.

For the Lord our God shall come, and shall take His harvest home;From His field shall in that day all offenses purge away,Giving angels charge at last in the fire the tares to cast;But the fruitful ears to store in His garner evermore.